Breaking Bad (AE): Scrabble is Dead
by Lucretia Debrev
Summary: Jesse wakes up in chemistry class after having a strange dream (the dream being everything that happens in Br Ba). He is angry at Mr. White for things that happened in an all-too-real dream. When his Aunt Ginny asks him if he wants to take care of a pest named Scrabble living under her floorboards and in her walls, how can he say no?


"MISTER PINKMAN!"

"Ah! What? How'd you get your hair back?"

Some kids laughed but Jesse didn't see what was so funny, it was an honest question. How had Walter White gone from the hair he currently had, to bald, to long hair, and then back to the hair he was seeing now?

"My hair? I'm not old yet. And you just missed all of class. We've got a minute 'til the bell rings and I want you to stay after class."

Jesse just stared blankly at Mr. White.

_You son of bitch! I hate you! HATE you for killing— _

"Care to explain why you fell asleep in my class, Mr. Pinkman?"

"No."

Jesse blinked. He'd just back talked a teacher—what was going on?

_The same guy that poisoned a kid and killed your girlfriend and—wait why isn't he bald? _

"I—I'm sorry. I don't know what…"

"Why'd you ask me how I got my hair back?"

"I just…I just had this crazy dream. You shaved your head—or maybe you lost it because of the treatment—I don't know. I—"

"Treatment? Treatment for what," he said leaning against his desk, arms folded.

"I…this is gonna sound crazy….For…for…"

"For?"

_"__You never figured that out—did ya Pinkman? You never figured out how to think!" _

Jesse sat up straight, "Cancer."

"_Cancer?_ So…while you were sleeping—_in_ my class—you dreamt that I had…cancer?"

"Yes. Sir."

"Pinkman? Have you been on drugs?"

"Yes," Jesse put his hands up and start shaking his head, "No! No! No I have not—in the dream I was—but not now I swear!"

"So in this dream…not only did I have cancer but you were on drugs. Anything else happen in this dream?"

"Yeah. I got kicked out of my parents' house and started cooking—"

Jesse stopped himself before he went too far. The more he looked at Walt White the more he wanted to kick him in the ribs and break his nose.

"Cooking what?"

"Tacos."

"Tacos?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"What?"

"I know you hate chemistry but right now you're looking at me with a murderous gleam in your eye."

"Hum. That's…weird."

_That's a given. You murdered my girlfriend, you ruined my life you—_

"Can I leave now. Please? I…I need to clear my head. Please."

"Alright, Jesse. Are you feeling okay?"

"I…I don't know. I feel…dead."

"Dead…?"

Truth be told he did. He felt angry at Mr. White. It was a rage that boiled inside him but just when it reached its peak, the only thing he felt was exhaustion and sadness.

"Can I go now?"

"Yes…yes, Jesse, you can go now."

"Ms. Pinkman? This is Walter White—I'm Jesse's science teacher. I just called to ask you if we could schedule some kind of parent teacher conference?"

"Yes of course. Might I ask why?"

"Well, your son fell asleep in my class today, but I don't think lack of sleep is the real problem."

Jesse moped around the rest of the day feeling detached. As if he was older than everyone. As if he didn't belong in high school, like he'd lost something—some sort of innocence—that he couldn't find or get back. He felt lightheaded—the entire day. He felt like he was in a daze—the entire day. He felt drain and restless. The minute seventh period ended, he was out the door, out of the school. But on the way out he bumped into Mr. White.

"Excuse me Jesse—"

Jesse just stared and kept staring until he ran into someone else—

"Sorry, sorry."

_It's too loud in here. Too many footsteps, too many voices. _

His pace quickened as he imagined Mr. White—a cold, insensitive monster. His heart was pumping too fast for his own good, and he became afraid. It consumed him. He ran home and then skateboarded once he was a block from his house.

"Jesse? That you?"

"Yeah. Where's Jake?"

_"__Who?" _

"Never…never mind," he panted.

_You don't have a younger brother…get a grip Pinkman. _

"You're a mess!"

"Hey son. You run here?"

"Dad…"

"Yeah?"

"Mom…"

"Yes?"

"I'm…I'm gonna go upstairs. Is that—is that okay?"

"Sure. You okay," Jesse's dad asked.

"Um, yeah—yes. Yes, sir. Everything's cool."

Jesse went upstairs. He took off his shirt and sat on the bed for a while, simply staring into space. Voices swirled in his head. He hit his head, slapped himself, put his hands over his ears, but they wouldn't go away. They simply rushed at him all at once.

_"__Let's get high. Just one more time, and then never again. Just to celebrate…" _

_"__Can Brock come over and play video games?" _

_"__What do we call this, hum, Jesse? We call it…copper." _

_"__Damn son, this is one sick stereo you got here man! Call me and Badger any time and we'll party!" _

_"__Jesse get the fly!" _

Then he heard a knock on the door.

"Jesse, can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure. Let me move some stuff though."

"That'd be best."

His mother waited patiently for him to clear his clothes and junk off his swivel chair and bed.

"Listen, son, your father and I have been talking. I got a call from your teacher, Mr. White today and he said you fell asleep in class. He also said you had a dream where he had cancer and you used drugs and sold tacos."

"It wasn't tacos. It was meth—and it was so much more than that—"

Jesse's father knocked on the door frame, "Mind if I butt in?"

"Sure. Look, in this dream…so much happened. I had a girlfriend and she died, and then I had another girlfriend and she died too and—and Walt killed the first one and you kicked me out of the house because I started doing meth and—and—," he was speaking a mile a minute. If he couldn't tell what he was saying, his parents sure as hell couldn't.

Jesse was on the verge of tears and he felt lightheaded again.

"You know what, Jesse, I think we need to switch your medications. Maybe you're having too much. Maybe it's over stimulating your brain or something."

"No, no. This wasn't that, mom. Mr. White—he killed her. He killed her and I didn't even know it and he killed those people on the plane too—"

"Plane? What plane?"

"I—I—"

_Oh Jesus I need to get out of here before I head explodes. No. I need them to. I need to straighten things up. God the place is a mess. A freakin' mess!_

His mind was working in overdrive. Maybe it was the ADD medicine. Maybe it did something to his head when he had it and a joint the day before. One thing was for sure—he wanted to stop cooking meth and he couldn't, he got in too deep then, he needed to stop doing drugs before it became a serious problem. But then again…it already was. He'd already been to Emilio's house and gotten high—and he'd _loved_ it. But the dream he'd had…he decided he wouldn't get high ever again if it lead to such horrible dreams, such _nightmares_.

_Then? What do you mean 'then' you little bitch? NONE OF THIS HAAPENED!_

"Jesse….are you feeling alright?"

"Can I have some time alone…please?"

"Yes. We'll talk about this later, okay?"

"Yep."

As soon as they were gone, he started putting all his dirty clothes into a pile in the center of his room. Then he made his bed. Then he paced back and forth until a cold sweat broke out and he felt cold. He opened a window—too hot—he closed it.

Then he called Emilio.

"Hey, Emilio, it's Jesse. Look, what we did yesterday…it was amazing, but I can't do it again, okay?"

"Okay. Sure."

Jesse hung up.

_Okay. Okay this is good. This…this is good. Now all you have to do is calm down. Calm the fuck down and…and do what? (Smoke a cigarette) but I've never done that before. (Yes you have. Remember? You did that to keep your mind busy so you wouldn't go back to using). Shut up! Why can't I just stop thinking?! How am I having an argument with myself?!_

_You're losing it Pinkman! Losing it! _

Jesse decided to go for a jog to his Aunt's house. If he could talk to anyone about his dream, it'd be his Aunt Ginny. She would listen objectively.

"Hey, mom? Can I jog to Aunt Ginny's house?"

"Yes. Be home before diner—she's been rather sick lately so I don't want her doing any cooking or anything like that, okay? You have called her, haven't you?"

"No, but I will."

"Okay. Use the phone in the kitchen."

He dialed his Aunt's number.

"Hello?"

His chest seized up. What was he going to say? 'Oh I'm so glad you didn't die of cancer'?

"Hey, Aunt Ginny? It's me, Jesse. You're nephew. It's me. How are you?"

"I'm okay. Just really tired. You _know_, I was just about to call you. How'd you like to make 20 bucks?"

"Um, I'd love too. How can I do that?"

"Well, there's a possum under my house. I've started calling him Scrabble, he's always crawling about the walls, thought I might as well name him," she laughed, "Jesse? Jesse, you there?"

Jesse began to cry.

_She was dead…she was dead. And no one knew about Scrabble except me…I told mom and dad and that's why we found out about the cancer. _

"Jesse? Jesse what's wrong?"

His mother had watched him make the phone call as she fixed supper. He handed her the phone and ran out of the house.

He stopped when he was halfway to his Aunt Ginny's house. He decided to take a detour.

_Maybe I already knew about Scrabble. Maybe I just forgot I knew. Maybe…the only way to prove theirs any merit to your fucked up dream at all is if you know the way to Walt White's house. You've never been there, never been anywhere near his house in your life. Except in that dream. _

So he ran. He turned all the right corners, went down all the right streets and avenues until he ended up at his chemistry teacher's house. Sweat ran down his back but he felt cold. He turned around and sprinted for his Aunt's house. He decided he was through with drugs, if he could help it, Heisenberg would never exist.

"Be careful now, Jesse. I don't want you to get hurt."

"It's no trouble Aunt Ginny, really. You got a gun?"

"Yes…you're not going to do something stupid like shoot yourself, right?"

"No. No of course not."

"Have you ever fired a gun? You and your dad should go out to the shooting range sometime."

_"__Where were you standing when you shot him? Did you knock or ring? Jesse, did you knock or ring?" _

"Oh I've fired a gun before," he said without smiling. He watched his Aunt's smile slowly fade.

"So anyway…when you're through with that you can stay and I'll make us something to eat."

"Sure."

Jesse took his Aunt's shotgun, crawled under the house, and found Scrabble. He realized he'd never killed anything before. Not an animal, not a person. Nothing.

_"__Trust me Jesse." _

Jesse shot Scrabble in the head without thinking twice.

"Here's your 20."

Jesse held up his hand, "I don't suppose…I don't suppose you have any cigarettes, do you?"

"Are you sure you killed Scrabble? I think I still here him down there."

Jesse held up both his hands, "See the blood on my hands? That blood belongs to Scrabble."

"Okay…There's a pack in my bedroom drawer."

Jesse lit the cigarette and took in his first drag-he coughed when he inhaled, but after a while, the motions of breathing it in and out were calming. He turned on the radio and laid on his Aunt's bed.

"You are currently listening to 'Rock Is Dead' by Marilyn Manson ladies and gents on ABQ 90.5"

The song was loud. He normally didn't like loud rock. But he found peace in the chaos-in the raw, meaningless lyrics. And when he imagined Walt White wearing his trademark Heisenberg ASOS Pork Pie Hat, when he imagined that man being forced to breathe the same cigarette smoke, the same second hand air, Jesse enjoyed the song. When he imagined the smoke he exhaled going into his chemistry teacher's lungs, he smiled, and felt determined. He closed his eyes, and relished in the memory of Walt White having a coughing fit and leaving the RV because the chemicals were too much for him to handle. Jesse took another drag of the cigarette in his hand, and smiled.


End file.
